Monday, 23 December 2013

It’s unlikely that I’ll spend another Christmas in Wexford.
When I first arrived in America that would have been a doomsday pronouncement
but, with time, you come to accept it as the emigrant’s lot. You weave together
your own traditions or, as likely as not, adopt and adapt someone else’s.

And
yet the memories draw you back. Wexford’s medieval Main Street was a thrilling
place for a child. For weeks before the big day the lights would illuminate the
many shop windows, flickering, dancing, and heightening the allure of the
finery and toys that would soon find their way to lucky homes.

No
one had much in the way of money and few got more than one Christmas gift, but
it would be something you had requested and anticipated since autumn. Things
have changed in Wexford; children get more than one gift, while the shops on
the once bustling Main Street must now compete with outlying supermarkets and
chain stores.

Wexford
was a great place to grow up in. You knew thousands by name or sight, but there
were always new people to discover, clubs to join and some festival or event
just around the corner. Though it reeked of history and had no little regard
for itself, the old town throbbed with an innate sense of excitement.

When
I first moved to Dublin, I lived in Rathmines, then the heart of culchie-land.
The craic was mighty, the music and the girls the finest; still on many the
Friday evening I could be found out near Bray with my thumb in the air, anxious
to hitch a lift home before the weekend revelries got into full swing.

Back
then I wouldn’t have dreamed of missing a Wexford Yuletide. Basically, the town
closed down from Christmas Day until January 2nd while the citizens
dedicated themselves to feasting, fraternizing and ripping it up in pubs and
dancehalls.

It
was a rare family that hadn’t relatives in London, Birmingham, or some other
industrial center of the UK. Many returned home in mid-December and the narrow
streets would ring with shouts of welcome and recognition. Not many ventured
across the Atlantic. I mightn’t have either but for a distaste for British
policies in the North of Ireland.

I
spent my first two Christmases in New York in a gentle state of inebriation, as
did most homesick illegal immigrants. If you risked a visit home, you might not
make it back safely through Kennedy. I feel for those currently undocumented –
many with children who rarely see grandparents. When I finally got my papers in
order I vowed never to miss another Christmas at home. And I didn’t – for many
years.

But
things change with the passing of parents. It’s not that you don’t care for
sisters and brothers but with the house gone, there’s an odd lack of center,
and anyway isn’t it easier go back in the summer for the good weather!!

And
yet I miss Christmas Eve in Wexford. It would begin in some pub in the early
afternoon; there you’d meet friends and friends of friends until the room would
be rocking with laughter, joy and music. Still, no matter what the craic, one
had to be home for 6 o’clock tea with your mother. She would want to know whom
you’d seen, were many out, did you run into this one or that?

Then back to the pub for another
marathon. Oddly enough, the evening would be topped off with midnight mass in
the Friary. Even to those with less than strident faith there was something
magical and reflective about that service.

The
hard chaws stood in the back by the holy water font, and there was always room
and nodded acceptance amongst them. We didn’t beat our breasts with the pious;
like the poet, Patrick Kavanagh, we were transients, present only to be blessed
by a “white rose pinned on the Virgin Mary’s blouse.”

For
Christmas transforms everyone and in the end, it doesn’t really matter if you
celebrate it in Wexford or New York. A very happy Christmas to you and yours!

She was my first IAP
(Irish-American Princess). Well the first that I lived with at any rate. Tara
had somehow made her way down to the Lower East Side from the leafy,
lace-curtain environs of Westchester, although she was anything but stuck up.

Back then I had a regular Sunday
gig in the less than ritzy Archway up the Bronx and she fit in there like a
fist in a glove. Of course, she was quite a looker so that didn’t hurt with the
lovesick Paddies.

She had beautiful grayish green
eyes that would mist over in any kind of conflict or passion; there was much of
both in our relationship. The boys said that she could twist me around her
little finger. They were right, but oh that twisting could be so sweet.

Things came easy to Tara. She had
succeeded at everything she’d turned her hand to. But she wished to become a
successful singer, the rock that many have foundered upon.

I must have seemed like a good step
up the ladder; along with gigs in the Archway and John’s Flynn’s Village Pub, I
regularly strutted my stuff at CBGB’s and Max’s Kansas City.

It was to be a match made in
purgatory for both of us. Whatever, as they say, I was in need of some
stability and moved into her apartment on First Avenue.

I always seemed to have “just
missed” her parents on their visits to the city. That should have set the bells
ringing but I guess when you’re in love…

Actually, our first major
disagreement was over my parents - when I announced I’d be spending Christmas
with them in Wexford.

“Our first Christmas together?” She
shuddered.

“Well, you can come too.” Although
I broke into a cold sweat at the thought of telling the Mammy that we’d be
bunking together in the ancestral homestead.

“I couldn’t desert my parents,” she
countered as though I was sentencing her whole white-picket-fenced clan to
twenty out on Rykers.

“But what about my parents?” I
countered. And on it went as lovers’ quarrels do until her eyes were so misty
and beautiful I feared that her heart might indeed break.

Well, I wrote my Mother a
particularly tear-stained letter full of half-truths (God rest her soul, I
suppose she knows the full story now). I didn’t dare telephone; I wasn’t man
enough to bear two loads of womanly angst.

In truth though, the part that
really hurt was that I would miss the traditional Wexford boys’ night out on
Christmas Eve. And so I extracted a promise from Tara that we’d at least tie on
a decent substitute.

“No problem,” she said and was good
to her word. She was fairly abstemious for those times but, when called upon,
could drink like a fish with little ill effect.

We bought a tree, decorated it, and
strung flashing lights all around the apartment. I almost felt like Jimmy
Stewart in It’s a Wonderful Life.Almost! For around 7pm I slipped on my
black leather jacket, she dressed up to the nines and off we strutted up First
Avenue to get well and truly shellacked.

God knows how many bars we hit, I
certainly don’t; but I was feeling no pain by the time we reached Max’s Kansas
City. Why Max’s on Christmas Eve? Well Tara liked to make the scene, besides I
knew the doorman and got in free.

I was also familiar with the
bartender who slid many the shot of watered-down whiskey towards us. And then,
through the shroud of smoky darkness, I heard the London accent.

“Roight!” The spiky-haired ghost in
black leather wearily exclaimed.

The platinum blonde next to him
droned on as junkies do.

“Roight.” Sid Vicious reiterated
whenever a response was expected.

I casually whispered his name to
Tara.

“Oh my God!” She shrieked as though
Jesus had just hopped down off the cross and offered to buy a round.

Sid looked up blearily, whereupon
Tara flashed him a smile that would have done justice to Marilyn Monroe on
steroids.

“The blonde looks like a piece of
all right,” I countered and winked at Nancy Spungen.

“From a bottle!” Tara sniffed just
as Sid laboriously hauled himself off his stool and stumbled towards the
restrooms; whereupon Ms. Spungen laid her head down on the counter for a wee
snooze.

We were still awaiting Sid’s return
when Tara looked at her watch and gasped. “It’s ten minutes to twelve.”

“Expecting to turn into a
pumpkin?”

“No,” she moaned, “we won’t get
into St. Patrick’s!”

“What for?”

“Midnight mass, of course. What do
you think?”

Was she kidding - from Max’s to
matins?

When we arrived at the church off
Avenue A, I could tell it wasn’t exactly what Ms. Westchester had in mind. For
one thing, the priests all wore shades and spoke Polish. Still, the place was
packed and we reverently stood in the transept in close proximity to an ornate
candelabra - wax dripping from its many branches.

Perhaps, it was the heat, though it
could have been Max’s watery whiskey; for one moment I was sweating and
swaying, the next I was writhing on the marble floor painfully disengaging
myself from a myriad of hot waxy candles. There was immediate uproar with many
Eastern European ladies screaming at me, and Tara, no doubt, wishing she was
safely home in leafy suburbia.

When I awoke on Christmas morning
much of her extensive wardrobe was laying atop me.She was modeling a matronly gray jacket and skirt, the hem
inches below her knees, damn near a foot down from its usual height.

I leaped from the bed and grabbed
my Doc Martens, pink shirt, and black leather tie and jacket.Unlike my dearest, I had long before
settled on an outfit appropriate for my first appearance in Westchester.

I did feel as though one of those
monsters from Alien was ready to hop out
of my stomach but I had much experience of that condition.“No, it’s okay. I want to do this for
you.”

She hemmed and hawed before
blurting out the truth, “It’s my mother…she wouldn’t like you.”

“What’s there not to like?”

“Well, your clothes, for one thing.
I mean, are you serious?”

And with that, the fight fled from
me. I could just picture the whole clan dressed in Kelly green singing Danny
Boy around a turf fire - her auld one, no doubt, peering out at me through lace
curtains.

Tara took me in her arms whispered
that I should go back to sleep, and hinted that on her return Santa might
provide some x-rated delights. But I wasn’t that easily mollified and delivered
one last parting shot as the door closed behind her, “So what am I supposed to
do, have Christmas dinner in an Indian restaurant?”

Well, I didn’t fall back asleep and
the hangover was of the galloping nature, gaining ground all afternoon. But the
hunger was no joke either and when I eventually sauntered up First Avenue the
only places open were of the Indian persuasion.

A dusting of snow was descending as
I stormed into The Taj Mahal. The lone customer didn’t even bother to look up
from his book; I sat there glaring at him, cursing all cruel-hearted IAPs and
wishing I was home with my Mammy in Wexford.

The snow was swirling around First
Avenue and White Christmas was leaking from doorways as I headed back to the
apartment. I turned on the blinking Christmas lights and took a couple of
fierce slugs of Jameson’s whiskey, turned the Clash up to eleven and rehearsed
ever more vicious and vengeful ways of breaking up with Ms. Westchester.

She must have forgotten her keys
for, at first, I didn’t hear her knock above Strummer’s bawling. I strode over
to the door, angrier than any Old Testament prophet. She stood there, face
flushed from the cold, snow in her hair; she was expecting my fury and accepted
it with grace. She smiled gently, her grayish green eyes misting over, and I
barely heard her murmur, “I missed you so much.”

She reached up, held a sprig of
mistletoe over my head and kissed me as if for the first time. And when she
whispered, “Merry Christmas, baby,” all the fight fled out of me and young love
in all its passion returned.

Friday, 20 December 2013

I don’t know who first turned me on to Walking On Cars. You
never heard of them? They’re the rage of the Dingle Peninsula and all points
east in County Kerry!

I
get a lot of tips on bands from listeners to Celtic Crush, my show on SiriusXM.
Most come to nothing: though the band may be dynamite on stage, they often lack
great or distinctive songs; and for radio it’s all about the magic that unfolds
in those three for four broadcast minutes.

I
was intrigued that Walking On Cars hails from Dingle. That part of the world
may boast the finest traditional players; yet, it has made less than a dent in
the international pop charts.

The
first thing that struck me about the band was that Patrick Sheehy sings with
his natural Kerry accent. In an odd way it was like hearing The Dubliners for
the first time and realizing that the inner city Dublin burr is head and
shoulders above any generic mid-Atlantic accent. It’s real, in your face, and
reeks of the ancient streets that have nurtured it.

Two
Stones from Walking On Cars first EP, doesn’t immediately jump out at you –
most songs that leave a lasting impression don’t – the rule of thumb being: if
you like it instantly it’s derivative. But on a second listen I was hooked
within minutes.

Walking
On Cars synthesizes so much of the fine pop music of the last 50 years,
beginning with The Beatles and ending with the current 17 year old New Zealand
wunderkind, Lorde. And yet, Two Stones is its own distinct universe, full of
lovely harmonies, simple but affecting piano chords, a driving rhythm section,
melodic guitar, and impassioned vocals – all wrapped together with a Dingle
sensibility.

I
played the track a number of times on Celtic Crush and was impressed by the
reception. One person even pulled his car off the highway just to savor the
song.

There’s a deep emotional pull to the music, something you
just can’t put your finger on, and yet you know that it’s coming from the
singer not the song - the band not the notes they’re playing.

I
was in Dingle for a night in October and met Patrick, Sorcha Dunham (keyboards)
and Paul Flannery (bass). I was a bit stunned by Patrick at first, for he bears
an odd resemblance to our own late lamented singer, Ray Kelly. Their
personalities were not unlike either – friendly, thoughtful, intense, a little
shy. Sorcha and Paul, the heartbeats of the band, were more outgoing.

They
invited me to see Walking On Cars the following night in Killarney. I thought
it might be a local pub gig; instead it was sold out concert and I had to fight
my way to the front through a mob of screaming teenage girls.

And what poise this young band has.
They already behave like seasoned professionals. Each has found his/her own
place in the spectrum of sound and presence – Paul, chatty and rock solid on
bass; Sorcha, appealing and quietly assertive on keyboards; Dan Devane, melodic
- even symphonic on guitar; Evan Hadnett propelling the whole thing on drums.
And all coalesced around, but not dominated by, a sensitive Kerry heartthrob,
Patrick.

Backstage
after I mentioned some of the echoes I’d heard – The Cars, Phil Manzanera; but
they’d never heard of Ric Ocasek, though Roxy Music rang a bell. Good for them!
Who needs the past when they’ll soon become their own icons.

Will
they make it? In a way they already have – attracting a big following without a
hit on the radio – much like Black 47 did in New York City.

Will
they become big stars? Luck, perseverance, and the right connections will be of
paramount importance. And so much can go wrong so quickly.

But
I think they’ll be fine. They’re infused with a can-do spirit and are united
against the world; and while they posses that great Kerry exuberance, they’re
not without a dollop of Kingdom reserve and common sense.

It’s a long way from Slea Head to
superstardom, but how great it will be to hear a Dingle accent pealing out from
Number one!

Thursday, 5 December 2013

I’m a sucker for churches. I can feel at home in a chapel or
kirk of any faith. Part of this comes from being raised by a grandfather who
was a monumental sculptor - a rather grand term he employed for his craft as
headstone maker.

Most
Sunday afternoons would find us pottering around some graveyard in County
Wexford. Bored to the teeth I would often retreat to the adjoining church for
some shelter from the wind. He would eventually join me and comment on the
lines of a statue, the granite in a pillar, the marble on an altar, and more
circumspectly: the eccentricities of the parish priest and the prospects of his
curate.

I
was influenced too by my love of Wexford’s Friary where I served as an altar
boy for five years.

The
Franciscans arrived in Wexford in 1255 and have never left, although they were
forced into hiding during the worst days of the Reformation. Enraged by the
town’s resistance to siege, Oliver Cromwell’s Roundheads slaughtered seven
friars before trotting their horses across the high altar of the medieval
church.

The
powerful bond between the friars and Wexford people was rarely spoken about;
they were just part of the fabric of the town. This union handily survived a
wave of anti-clericalism during the Lockout of 1911-12 when the Catholic
hierarchy was presumed to support the factory owners rather than the workers.
Through all this unrest the Franciscans never stinted in their support for the
working poor and were hailed for it.

Like
many I felt more comfortable in the Friary than in the two majestic twin
churches whose steeples seemed to egotistically stab at the sky. Even as a boy
I found them pompous and they offered little in the way of artistry, apart from
their pipe organs that thundered beneath the massed choirs that gathered in both
houses of worship.

But
even that show of hymnal firepower paled in comparison to the hushed beauty of
the shrine to St. Anthony where I regularly served 7 o’clock mass on Tuesday
mornings. There I’d minister to the saintly Father Ignatius as he presided over
his congregation of dotty, elderly ladies. One morning I fainted on the altar
steps and regained consciousness untended – neither priest nor congregation had
noticed such was their devotion to this 12th Century Franciscan.

I
never witnessed a man so consumed with God as Fr. Ignatius until encountering a
blind Muslim mystic in Southern Turkey. Nor have I ever met a priest as jolly
as Fr. Justin, OFM. He was like a rolling ball of laughs as he traversed the
narrow streets and back lanes of Wexford town. He was also a first-rate
confessor. Every sin from an anemic fib to fornicating with a thousand naked
Cossacks earned the same penance of three Hail Marys.

When
I related this observation to Fr. Mychal Judge OFM one riotous night in
Connolly’s he pondered for some moments before murmuring, “three Hail Marys
straight from the heart can cure a world of heartbreak.”

It
was in the Friary too that I made my last confession, largely because Fr.
Justin had been temporarily replaced by some lunatic cleric who roared to the
rafters that I had polluted my eternal soul – and this while I was in the
preliminary venial sin stage of my disclosures. I thought it better to spare
the poor man a heart attack, and me everlasting Wexford notoriety, and so I
fled for the door and years of agnosticism.

The
Grey Friars have taken over the old church now – no doubt they’re a good
outfit, although I miss my men in brown. Father Mychal once did some detective
work for me and related that Ignatius had become well known as a mystic within
the order, while Justin went to his eternal reward with a smile on his face.

Mychal’s
gone now too and what a loss he is to the many who turned to him in times of
trial. Yet, no matter how far one strays from the old faith, it’s always a
comforting feeling to know that an ancient church continues to stir so many
warm and treasured memories.